


Keep Your Enemies

by Anonymous



Series: Up To No Good [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Rough Sex, Subdrop, poor communication skills, real healthy relationship guys, seriously just talk to each other my god, why did I write this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:41:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25191067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Wolffe is a vampire. Plo is a hunter. They’re natural enemies, and yet they’ve started up a rather physical relationship anyway. It’s fine, until it’s suddenly not.Things reach a breaking point.
Relationships: Plo Koon/CC-3636 | Wolffe
Series: Up To No Good [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1863943
Comments: 3
Kudos: 79
Collections: Anonymous





	Keep Your Enemies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spadesking](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spadesking/gifts).
  * Inspired by [at night we meet like lovers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23882728) by [spadesking](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spadesking/pseuds/spadesking). 



He looks at Wolffe, at his confident prowl and toothy grin, and the pit in his stomach opens up again, gnawing at his lungs and stealing away his breath. He doesn’t fight when Wolffe shoves him down onto the mattress, lifts his hips obligingly when Wolffe tears at his trousers, opens his legs to Wolffe, drinking in his attention, his touch, his brutal affection. He _hurts_. This is the closest he will ever get to being loved back. 

Once this would have been enough, a rough fuck in some anonymous motel room, equal parts pain and ecstasy, coming away with his back torn up by teeth and claws and his scalp aching and his voice hoarse. It was balanced. It was fair. Just bodies making a exchange and moving on. He would have been fine, only his fucking heart had to get involved and let Wolffe tangle himself into Plo’s core until the thought of not having Wolffe was worse than anything Wolffe could do to him. He knows he’s pathetic. He disgusts himself. And yet here and now, with his hair supporting half his weight and the rest pressing his throat into the sheets, his arms wrenched behind him, his ass in the air and Wolffe driving into him with almost no care, he can’t make himself want this any less. He hurts and he never wants it to end. 

“Please,” he rasps, his gaze unfocused, not that it matters since his head is held in place. “Please, Wolffe.” The words spill out of him before he can choke them down. “Don’t stop.”

“Oh?” Wolffe leans down, his breath tickling Plo’s ear, his chest pressed against Plo’s back. “Feeling that desperate, are we?” He feels like a brand against Plo’s skin. 

“ _Please_ ,” Plo gasps. 

“What would you give me to keep going?” He lets go of Plo’s hair at last to run a hand along Plo’s ribs, down his side, fingers tightening around his hip to punishing.

“Anything,” Plo sobs. “Anything, anything, I swear it, please -” His words are muffled against the pillow he’s fallen against. All he can think of is Wolffe’s cock thrusting in him, the burn barely eased by lube and the minimal prep they’d managed before desire overtook them. 

“You’d let me have you dry?” Wolffe asks. “Let me fuck you until it’s too much and you’re begging me to stop?”

“Yes, _yes_ , _please, Wolffe,_ ” Plo chokes out. His throat feels like it’s closing up. It’s too hot. He doesn’t care if he roasts in his skin if it means Wolffe will keep touching him. 

“You’d let me bite you?” Wolffe whispers, the points of his fangs grazing against his skin. Plo bares his neck, mashing his face into the too-warm bedding. It’s damp. He can’t tell if it’s sweat or tears or drool. He doesn’t care. _Bleed me dry, as long as you don’t leave me before I’m gone,_ he thinks. 

And then Wolffe disappears. 

He feels _empty._ Hollow. He lies there, contorted in half, sore and hard and so painfully desperate for contact he doesn’t know what to do with himself. It’s all too much. Why has Wolffe stopped? And then callused hands coax him onto his back and cool air hits the tear tracks on his face, and Wolffe curls a hand around his jaw with an unfamiliar expression on his face, one that on anyone else might be called _grieving_ and _tender._

“Oh, Plo,” he says, pressing a gentle kiss to Plo’s forehead. “I didn’t know.” 

Plo wrinkles his brow, and then he realizes he must have spoken his last thought out loud. He thinks he should be embarrassed. He thinks he should be afraid. This is leverage, and he’s just handed it over to someone who should be his mortal enemy. It’s practically an engraved invitation for Wolffe to tear him to pieces. But it’s been months of back and forth and fucking and fighting and he doesn’t have anything left to shore up his crumbled defenses. “Please, Wolffe,” he mumbles, hopeless, helpless, aching. 

Wolffe runs his hands down Plo’s chest, over his belly, soothing. In the sudden quiet, the only sound is his gasping breath. He grasps at Wolffe’s arms, looking for proof that he hasn’t been abandoned, even though his thighs are bracketed around Wolffe’s hips. He clings to Wolffe’s wrists, closes his eyes when Wolffe places their hands by his head and waits for the vise-like grip to grind the bones in his wrist together. This is better than nothing. This is all he can have. Only Wolffe laces their fingers together instead and bends over him, a gentle caress against his palm before he presses in again. 

“Oh,” Plo whimpers, focusing down on the sensation of Wolffe on him, in him, anchoring him to the present. This is foreign to him. He doesn’t know what to make of it, but he won’t refuse it. “Don’t stop.”

“I’m not leaving,” Wolffe says, rocking against him. “I didn’t know you wanted more - I didn’t know -” He fucks Plo in long, smooth strokes, like a lover, like a partner, like Plo is something more than an enemy with benefits, and Plo can only lie there, trying to make sense of this change. He comes with a choked sob into Wolffe’s shoulder, twitching and unsteady, and the next thing he knows he’s been swaddled in soft blankets, cradled against a broad, bare chest, cool water held to his lips and a warm voice encouraging him to drink. He swallows a tiny sip. 

“There you are,” says Wolffe. His lips brush against Plo’s forehead. He runs a hand through Plo’s hair, massaging his tender scalp. “Back with me?”

Plo curls into himself as much as he can. He can’t find the words to respond. 

“That’s okay,” says Wolffe. “Take all the time you need.”

“You hate me,” Plo croaks. 

“No,” says Wolffe. His arms tighten around Plo. “I just didn’t think you’d let me give you anything more.” 

“I should hate you,” says Plo. He’s sure Wolffe hears the words he can’t make himself say: that he doesn’t, that he hasn’t for a while, that the history between them pales before his feelings. 

“I didn’t know,” says Wolffe, and kisses him again. 


End file.
